It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. I’ll have to make a visit out of town. ‘Jacques?’ she called. “I don’t understand. You know the sort of thing. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. Wood's charms equalled your description. The primitive superstition of his Puritan forbears was his; and before this the buckler of his education disintegrated.
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